I remember talking to her, back when we talked, wishing I Could fall over the short stone wall in front of me into the soft darkening of the sky, crying that I could not be still, could not relax, could not suspend the reality of my irreparable substance and the suffocating conviction that I would never finish. Finish…what? I did not know then, but now as I remember that day I think it was not a finish that I could not find, but peace. I could not silence the voice. It drove me to do, to obtain, to attain. It demanded perfection and the unattainable; it criticized, hated, reviled, even itself: “why can’t you just stop being so fucking stupid so I don’t have to keep getting so fucking mad you should just die you good for nothing freak why do you make me even talk to you if you just did things right you wouldn’t have to listen to me why do you always do these things whydoyoualwaysdothesethingsoverandoverandoveragain you worthless piece of shit why can’t you just be happy?”
I didn’t know how to escape from it. There would be flashes of freedom—usually when running, or losing myself in a problem; these were the only times the voice had no comment. It got a bit better; success was soon in direct correlation with silencing the voice, but I would become so exhausted. I could not sleep, for fear that if I wasn’t doing something, it would come back. To rest was to not be doing something.
Sleeping is my favorite thing to do.